


Boundaries Between Noise and Sound

by MercuryPheonix



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
Genre: M/M, and Frobisher learns to play him like an instrument, in which Sixsmith is loud in bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryPheonix/pseuds/MercuryPheonix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'“I’m going to make music out of you,” he whispered, his voice little more than swirling breath and coyly smiling lips that brushed at Sixsmith’s skin.'</p>
<p>Rufus Sixsmith was, ostensibly, a quiet man. However, every good rule has an exception. And, unsurprisingly, Robert Frobisher was Sixsmith’s exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boundaries Between Noise and Sound

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline/settings for this piece are taken from the book, although the characters themselves and their interaction with one another are a mixture of book and film canon (as I can't untangle them in my head).

_'I understand now that boundaries between noise and sound are conventions. All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention, if only one can first conceive of doing so.’_

**

Rufus Sixsmith was, ostensibly, a quiet man.

Not that he was shy. None of his fellow students at Caius would level that accusation at him. He spoke when words were needed, and, if they were not needed, he was quite content to observe (or, more likely, to distract himself with something more worthy of his attention).  Within weeks of his arrival in Cambridge, he had carved a reputation as a brilliant, respected scientist who was more comfortable buried in theorems than engaging in small talk. And he was quite happy with that.

However, every good rule has an exception.

And, unsurprisingly, Robert Frobisher was Sixsmith’s exception.

From the first moment they met in Gresham, so many years ago now that it seemed like a different world entirely, he had stirred up something within Sixsmith; he’d irked him, challenged him, annoyed him, thrilled him, prodded and poked until there was little for him to do but respond (whether that response was in the form of words or disgruntled grunts was a different matter entirely).

The sheer volume and velocity of Frobisher’s words, twisting and shimmering through the air like musical notes; words and sounds that fell from his lips with an intoxicating fervour that cast aside any acknowledgement of necessity. Frivolous words; chatter, inanity, sarcasm, witticism, meaningless philosophising and musical technicalities; when Frobisher talked, there was nothing to do but be swept along with the rest of the debris. He had a way of articulating that transcended the oftentimes rubbish that fell from his lips – making nonsense out of normality, and wisdom out of nothing.

Their conversation was odd, intriguing, slightly one-sided, a clashing of personalities; but with a level of innate mutual understanding, which was the keystone that kept them returning to one another. Their lives revelled in fascination, in intrigue, in ordering the intricate and secret tickings of the world. Even if the direction of their intrigue differed greatly – the careful dissection of Sixsmith’s science, and the mad, passionate scramble for expression of Frobisher’s music – they were both looking for something deeper, something to explain, something to understand, if only they could.

But there was still an order to Sixsmith that Frobisher had never had. A thoughtfulness that allowed for thought before action (perhaps this was why he often heard the word ‘kindly’ being placed on his shoulders, even though he didn’t see that within himself). His words, although flowing more freely in the tide of their very unique conversation, were still thought out; methodical and distinct, as though he were carefully inking equations and theorems through his words.

And Sixsmith was certain that it was this constancy that spurred Frobisher on, deeper and further, resorting to the most underhanded of tactics to coax something more, more, _more_ from a man whose levels were otherwise very firmly set in place.

And, one night, beneath the stars in Corsica, the summer before they walked through the city walls of Cambridge, Frobisher found what he was looking for.

Because, as quiet as he was elsewhere, Sixsmith was loud in bed. At least, in contrast to his normal levels. None of the students who followed him, full of respect for this quiet genius, could have imagined the sounds that came out of him in those moments. This was something that Frobisher never ceased to remind him; a self-satisfied quirk to his mouth as he stepped away from his successful crescendo, took his bow, lit a cigarette and marvelled at the music he had produced. He laughed about it. He commented snidely on it. He was a bastard about it, frankly – but then again, ‘bastard’ was Frobisher’s natural state of being. He wore it like a tailcoat, dressing himself up to conduct the world.

Frobisher was a musician. Composer. Conductor. If there was one thing he commanded, it was wordlessness; unbridled, raw sonic honesty, coherent syllables discarded with their clothes as he put his talented hands, fingers, mouth, tongue into practice.

He had learned to play Sixsmith’s body as though he were playing a piano  - pressing each key with just the right pressure to produce distinct, unique notes, hitting each string of his vocal chords to coax the sounds that he fancied at any given time.

And Frobisher quickly became a master of his craft.  

Sixsmith had to acknowledge the genius of Frobisher’s musical talent in those moments.  He noted the concentration and immersion that painted his features, a set of his face that he only ever saw when the man was either lost in his music – or, it seemed, lost in _them_. There was little more important to him than his music, and it was at these times, when he became the most beloved of instruments, that he felt as close to Frobisher’s heart as he could possibly get.

Frobisher worked like a man possessed; memorising each note, gently pressing his face against Sixsmith’s skin to register the pitch of his breathing, plucking at each of his strings, caressing his keys in a gentle ramble across the scales (major or minor, depending on his mood); a conflagration of notes, working the sound out gently, furiously, building to crescendos, a gorgeous journey from smooth legato to short sharp semi-quavers of pure intensity.

And then, as the last notes quivered away into the room – as Frobisher got that smug look on his face, that cigarette clenched between his fingers, his arm propped on Sixsmith’s chest, or stomach, or back, or whatever was available to him – his eyes would sparkle with something that Sixsmith was dangerously close to calling _inspiration_.

“What’s that for?” he managed one time, shifting as much as his boneless limbs would allow and nudging Frobisher with his foot. The other man blinked, raising an eyebrow.

“What?”

“That look. I know it. What are you plotting?”

“I am offended to my very core that you would accuse me of something like that.”

Taking one final drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the bedside table ( _Sixsmith’s_ bedside table, it should be mentioned, but he didn’t have the energy to protest), Frobisher silenced Sixsmith’s retort before he’d even opened his mouth; placing a soft finger on his slightly throbbing lips and pressing close so that that mad tangle of hair tickled at the back of his ear.

“I’m going to make music out of you,” he whispered, his voice little more than swirling breath and coyly smiling lips that brushed at Sixsmith’s skin.

Sixsmith had no answer to that. Or at least, in those moments, his head was too heavy to try and come up with one.

“You’re mad,” he mumbled, settling himself comfortably on the bed so that Frobisher’s lanky, elf-like frame was pressed against his back, an arm now splayed languidly across his waist so that fingertips brushed his stomach. “You’re completely mad.”

Frobisher’s response was probably something to do with not appreciating his genius, and probably contained the word ‘ignoramus’ somewhere, but Sixsmith was asleep before he had the chance to process it.

It was never a subject that played on Sixsmith’s mind. It was yet another facet to the impossible tangle that was Robert Frobisher. They challenged one another, questioned one another, but Sixsmith had never sought to dig too deep into the character that lay beneath. He knew it, of course, as well as he could (probably better than anyone in the entirety of Frobisher’s life had managed); he had grown to understand it; but he never pushed for more, never sought out every answer at any cost.

In fact, he didn’t think on it again until a cold wintery afternoon in 1932, as the first frosty creepings of the new year began to wrap themselves around him. He felt heavy under the weight of another year. And yet lighter, in the most unpleasant of ways, as though someone had spooned an essential part from somewhere in his chest.  

It was on the walk back from that empty cemetery in the heart of Cambridge (with another genius now nestled beneath its earth) that Sixsmith decided, finally, to unwrap that messy parcel of papers that Frobisher had entrusted to him.

And that’s when he found it.

It was inconspicuous, ink-blotted, untitled; nestled amongst the _Cloud Atlas Sextet_ , a separate score, one which clearly had no place within the ranks of Frobisher’s ‘masterpiece’.

Sixsmith was not a musician, but he had a basic understanding of the science. He could read music. To a degree.

But he didn’t have to read music to recognise this piece.

The rise and fall of the music. The feel of it. The look of it. The thumping of the ever increasing tempo. A gradual journey from low and long to high, sharp, rising into its crescendo, before breaking into a warm calm that faded into nothing.

Sixsmith never had the piece pressed. As he overlooked the production of the sextet, he kept the crumpled paper safe in a drawer amongst Frobisher’s precious letters.

But, some nights, he fell asleep listening to it nonetheless.

**

_‘In moments like this, I can feel your heart beating as clearly as I feel my own. And I know that separation is an illusion.'_

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for this fiction came from Frobisher's comment that: " Really, Sixsmith, you should try lovemaking in total silence. All that ballyhooing transmutes into bliss if you'll only seal your lips". It always felt to me like that was an inside joke, and from the moment of first reading it the seeds of this piece were planted in my head.


End file.
